


still begin to sing it again

by sapphea



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Character Study, F/M, Mythology - Freeform, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-15 18:16:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14795511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphea/pseuds/sapphea
Summary: “We all got a story, don’t we? No one ends up here without a journey down.” She sounded like a Greek chorus, honey songbird voice weighed down with tragedy. “I ain’t so special as to have one that ain’t been told a hundred times over in every which way.”“But you ever tell your story, little lark?” old Stick asked. “There’s power in that, y’know. Puttin’ your own words to your own past. Puts somethin’ right in the universe.”





	still begin to sing it again

**Author's Note:**

> 'Cause, here’s the thing:  
> To know how it ends  
> And still begin to sing it again  
> As if it might turn out this time?  
> I learned that from a friend of mine.
> 
> \--Road to Hell II

“Phew, it’s cold enough to burn right up in here today!”

“It’s cold here every day, Jay.”

The old man guffawed, swinging his pickaxe with an ease like he’d done it for a hundred years. “Sure, but ‘swear it’s _extra_ cold today.”

“Ain’t no colder than yesterday, or last week, or last year,” the woman said, and stabbed her pile of coal like her shovel was a sword. “Words don’t warm the air up like you think they do.”

“Aw, Blue, don’t talk sour.” Jay had that voice blues singers had, like he was breathing music with every word. Like his voice was made for listening. “You know I like listenin’ to the sound of my own voice.”

“And it’s a good voice, too!” called Stick.

Jay put a hand to his heart. “Aw, well, thank you much, Mr. Stick.” He was far enough away that the shadows obscured Stick’s exact location, but Jay tipped his hat towards the direction his voice came from.

Blue attacked her coal pile again, digging for blood or justice or just a little bit of warmth. “Some of us just here to make a living. Don’t need to hear your lip-flapping and feather-preening while we do.”

“Lip-flapping and feather-preening? Me?” Jay looked affronted. “Now, Ms. Blue, I know we’re all tired but there’s no need to go on attacking a fellow citizen with them harsh words.” A slight thing caught his eye. “‘Sides, little Lark loves my songbird voice, don’t she?”

“Aw, leave her be,” Blue protested, but Lark didn’t stop her mechanical motions at Jay’s tease. Shovel in dirt, foot to shovel, shovel over shoulder, repeat. Not even a second spared to wipe dust or sweat from dripping in her eyes.

“Still no voice, little Lark?” Jay cajoled. “Don’t you worry none, ma’am, I can sing a pretty tune enough for the both of us birdies.” His lips pursed and he whistled out a tune, bright and sharp, but the darkness around seemed to take some shine out even as the sound passed his lips. The thing about Jay was his talk wasn’t just talk, and he didn’t just have a blues singer’s voice-- he knew how to use it, too. Even his little flicker of song warmed all the workers who could hear from the soul up, even Blue’s. You could see her icy eyes thaw.

Jay kept whistling as he swung his pickaxe again, letting it set a tempo. Stick started humming along-- it must be a song they all knew before they came here, a song they brought to the coal mines in their blood-- and Blue could be heard harmonizing, music leaving her lips against her will.

Right when the song was coming to a close, the sweetest sound came from Lark’s corner of the mine. She was singing along, and what a songbird voice she had. Fine like gold thread. The other miners dropped the song like so many hot pan handles, silence an echoing crash around her voice. She looked up in surprise.

“What, y’all never hear a song before?” If Jay breathed music, little Lark’s voice was the sound of the Earth blooming in springtime. Honey bees drifting lazily from tree to tree in August afternoon air. The sound of two lovers breaking away from a kiss. Every miner fell a little in love with her as soon as the first syllable fell from her lips.

“I ain’t never hear music before I heard you sing,” Jay said, quiet like he was talking in a church, like he should be praying instead. “Little Lark, you wasted here in the mines.”

Lark’s eyes went dark. “Ain’t we all?” she snarled, but even poisoned with hate her voice flowed lovely. “No use regretting it when there ain’t nothin’ to do ‘bout it.” And she went right back to her shoveling like she hadn’t cracked the world open before the other miners.

She was so young to be so resigned, they thought. So lovely even beneath the shadows and grime and weight of hard work. Lark was the latest addition to their corner of the mine, but even her first day she’d shown up with an emptiness in her eyes no one could explain.

No one talked for the rest of shift, but if Lark noticed she gave no sign of it. Her sightless eyes watched her shovel dig and dig an endless hole until the bell sounded and they all went in for dinner.

Like every night, not a single miner could say what they had for dinner, or even whether it was hot or cold. None felt satisfied, but none felt one step from keeling over, so they took it and went about their after-work ritual of spending their daily pay on moonshine, splitting the bottle between themselves and the sputtering campfire.

Like every night, Lark sat just that much away from the rest of the group, no bottle in sight. No one knew what she did with her pay-- it was only accepted at the mine’s general store, and they’d never seen her step foot in the rotting building. But she sat just within reach of the fire’s warmth and looked into the flames like they told her secrets.

Like every night, Jay played host, storying and singing and joking into the dark. He and Stick played duet, talking about good old days and people they knew, bone and brawn throwing each other into relief. Blue threw a word in every once in a while to stir the pot or to hear a woman’s voice among the baritone.

Unlike every other night, Jay looked over to Lark and asked, “And you, little Lark? You got a story?”

Lark kept her empty eyes on the fire, but unlike every night, she opened her mouth. “We all got a story, don’t we? No one ends up here without a journey down.” She sounded like a Greek chorus, honey songbird voice weighed down with tragedy. “I ain’t so special as to have one that ain’t been told a hundred times over in every which way.”

“But _you_ ever tell your story, little Lark?” old Stick asked. “There’s power in that, y’know. Puttin’ your own words to your own past. Puts somethin’ right in the universe.” Jay and Blue nodded their agreement, gazes fixed on Lark.

Lark looked up at him, quiet for a moment. “Will it change the ending?” she asked, except it sounded like a plea.

Stick’s skinny face cracked in two a little but his voice was steady as he said, “No, birdie. But it might change your understanding.”

“I understand my story too well,” said Lark, but she returned her gaze to the fire with a careful breath. “But all right, y’all wanna know? Here it is.

 

“My mama wasn’t around and my daddy was there even less. By the time I was nine I was working, shining shoes or sweeping floors just to put a piece of bread in my mouth three times a day. Summers were hot and winters were cold, but I always hated winters more than anything else in the world. Winters are when people stop feeling generous, when all they wanna do is shut their doors against the wind and keep their families out of the chill. I never had a family, so all I knew was the cold.

I didn’t mean to fall in love with him. Hell, I didn’t even think I _could_ fall in love. But he had a smile like honey and a voice like a sunset and I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to. So I let myself fall.

He’s one of the good ones, you know? The down-to-the-marrow, toe to tip _good_ people that you don’t think exist outside fairy tales. He glowed with it; he was dipped in gold so his outside matched his inside. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. He’d write me songs, bright and warm, and I’d never felt warm in my life. How could I not love him?

He was poor but he had a way of talking rich. He thought, given the chance, all men would share everything with each other. That we’d live as brothers and sisters, lovers, family. He promised I’d never want for anything with him, because the world would see how in love we are and provide for us. I know it’s stupid. I knew he was wrong about the world. But he made me _want_ to believe that the world could be like that. They talk about love blinding, right?

But then winter came, and like every year, generosity ran thin. Neither of us had jobs-- he was always workin’ on this song, his epic, that would change the world. No one had a free hand to extend to me. We were low on food and even lower on money. I thought I could be a new person with him, but I’m a coward to the bone. First sign of trouble, I went right back to being a rat, stealin' anything I thought I could get away with.

Of course he found out. Got mad, because who wants to find out they married a thief? I knew I was livin’ on borrowed time with him, knew a dream like that couldn’t ever last, but I thought I’d get at least a year to pretend, y’know?

So I ran. Met the Boss by a railroad track. He offered me a ticket, promised work, promised pay, promised three meals a day. How could I say no?

He’s probably better off without me anyway. He was sunshine and I’ve always been dirt. But he gave me a summertime and for that I’ll love him forever.”

 

When she was done her words seemed to hang in the air with the coal dust, dark and choking. The miners all looked into the fire, and it was like they were looking at each other. Lark was right: they’d all heard that story, or at least a version of it. Some of them even lived parts of it. But to hear such a young voice tell it-- it felt wrong. Nothing could help it, so they said nothing.

“Anyway, that’s me emptied. I’m goin’ in for the night,” said Lark, and she did just that.

 

The body can get used to so much, Lark learned early on in the mines. Coal dust, hunger, the dark, cold. She coughed black and shivered until her muscles locked from fatigue but still her shovel dug into the earth in a rhythm of three. The body can adapt to so much.

The mind can, too, but different. Bodies grow calluses, put on muscle. Get bigger to hold the weight of the new. The mind shifts around the ugly, rearranges itself until some thoughts just can’t fit in anymore. Memories fall out or get buried. Ivy tangling and pushing and enveloping.

Lark had lied when she told the other miners her story last night or a year ago. She’d nearly emptied herself, but not entirely. Her mind had warped around one shining diamond of memory, protecting her from herself so deeply she barely realized she’d done it.

But since she had nothing to do with it, it was easy to ignore. So she did, and she worked.

Until the Misses came around.

No one knew why the boss let the three old hags have free reign over the mine but everyone knew better than to question anything. They liked to natter around, gossiping and breathing heavily down working folks’ necks.

Spinner’s voice came first, sounding like it came from a pack of cigarettes: “Oh my my my, the hero returns once more!”

“The knight in shining armor, he can’t stay away very long, can he?” crooned Measure.

Snip cackled. “It’s not his fault his princess keeps tripping down here!” All three burst into cracked laughter, shushing each other as they caught sight of Lark and the miners.

Measure reached out a wrinkled hand to Lark’s cheek. “Hear the news, pretty birdie? Your prince has been spotted!”

“Think the Boss will let us keep him this time?” asked Snip, rotten teeth bared. “What a lovely specimen he is, so _strong_ , so _hearty_ \--”

“And a voice to woo the gods!” crowed Spinner, and the Misses dissolved into cackles again.

Jay turned back to his work, ready to dismiss the crones as batty, but he caught sight of Lark’s face and froze. She looked ashen, eyes wide, mouth open but not looking like she was breathing. “Little Lark?” he called.

“What do you mean, he’s been spotted?” she asked as the cackling subsided, but the Misses just looked at each other again and laughed ugly broken laughs.

“Why, he’s arrived!” said Snip.

“And right on schedule, too,” added Measure.

“But _why_?” asked Lark.

“ _Why?_ ” shrieked back Spinner.

“For you, of course!” the Misses chorused, and with more echoing cackles and fluttering cloaks they departed like a flock of ravens in the night.

Jay had an idea of the _he_ the Misses talked about, but he kept his mouth shut. No one ever came for anyone ‘round here.

But Lark stood frozen, shivering a little. “He can’t--” she whispered. “there’s no way he would-- he _couldn’t_ \--” she cut herself off with a sob. She breathed in a rattling breath, straightened her spine, and stuck her shovel into the dirt with vigor.

No one sang in the mines that day. Not another word was shared.

 

Since time moves strange when you can’t see the sun, Jay wasn’t sure if it was the next day or the next week that a golden boy covered in dirt tripped into their corner of the mine. He had a guitar clutched in one of his hands, and even with a snapped string it had the shine of a fine and well-loved instrument. The boy had a wild animal look in his eye, like he wasn’t sure if he was predator or prey but his entire body was screaming at him to keep moving. Until he locked eyes with Lark.

His face split open in a helpless grin. “I found you,” he said on a breath, and it sounded like a hymn.

She stared. “You’re here. Why are you here?”

“I came for you.” He gripped the neck of his guitar nervously, fretting at the frets. “Didn’t I promise you forever?”

“You promised me a whole lot more than you could give. Maybe forever was somewhere in there.” But her eyes never left his face.

“That’s not fair, Eury-”

“Don’t say my name! Not here.” She looked around for the first time, as if remembering where they were. “They call me Lark ‘round here, you better too.”

None of the other miners moved a muscle, made a sound. Something about the air between them made it clear that no one else was supposed to come between them. It was like the coal dust melted away, and there was nothing but clean empty space between the two. The golden boy’s hand came up to touch Lark’s cheek like it was drawn by a magnet, like his skin moved to touch her skin without his permission. His fingers left streaks across her cheekbone.

“I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again,” he said quietly.

“I knew you never would,” Lark confessed. Her eyes were bright.

The boy stared heartbreak into her. “Why?” he asked. “Why did you run?”

“I--” her voice broke. “I needed the money. We were starving--”

“No, we weren’t! Sure, our supplies were getting low, but we were gonna make it through--”

“Sure, we might have _survived_ , but you promised me a _life_ !” Two lines of tears ran down her face. “You said I wouldn’t have to fight for myself anymore, and then you let the grain supply get low, always busy workin’ on your _song_ , and--” Lark cut herself off. “And in the end I’m gonna do what I’ve always done: hold my own. By any means necessary.”

Golden boy looked taken aback. “That’s not true,” he said. “I know you, I know you’re better than that. You were just scared. I’m sorry I made you scared, but,” and his eyes were bright, too. “You _love_ me, Lark,” he brushed the tears away with his thumbs, cradling her face in his hands. “And I love you.”

“You should just leave,” Lark whispered, but she grasped his arms tight, desperate. “I’m always gonna be this. I ain’t worth it.”

“You’re worth everything,” he whispered against her forehead. “We can try again. Will you walk with me?”

Lark smiled a wet smile but it shone like silver. “I will.”

Then the earth around them trembled with a mighty wordless voice, and the boy slipped out of Lark’s grasp.

 

“Well, ain’t you right on time,” a voice deeper than Hell rumbled.

Lark was standing in an office that felt more like a throne room, an obsidian desk separating her from the source of the voice. Everything was cast in shadow, but she could see a glint of cold golden eyes.

“Who are you?” demanded another voice, and Lark turned to see her lover, her poet standing a few feet away. She tried to approach him, but she couldn’t un-stick her feet.

The Boss’s laugh rolled like thunder in his chest. “Don’t this song get a little tiring to sing again and again, loverboy?” he asked.

Her poet just looked confused, but the Boss turned his gaze to Lark and even though it was colder than the coldest winter wind she could see molten fire. “Our little songbird knows what I’m sayin’, don’t you, little Lark?”

Lark’s mind had warped around one shining diamond of memory, but the fire in his eyes burned away the ivy and left it standing.

This is what it was, glittering its betraying hope: Lark’s done this song and dance before.

It’s an old song, one the earth’s been singing near as long as it’s been turning. She wondered if the other miners even knew that the song they sang the other day was hers. Her lungs gasped and her knees buckled with the realization.

“Eurydice!” he shouted. She thought the world was gonna go black again, but everything just got sharper.

“Hades,” she said, looking into the eyes of a god. Her voice didn’t tremble though her soul shivered in her chest. “Are we ready to make our deal?”

Hades hummed. “Patience, little songbird,” he said. “You know well as I that the presentation is just as important as the challenge itself. You ready for the chorus?”

 

He snapped his fingers and they’re in a speakeasy, or an amphitheater, or a courtroom, or an arena, but there are miners and railroad workers and construction people all around, and she stands with her lover in the middle of them all, awaiting judgement.

“Eurydice, I don’t--” he started quietly, but the roar of the crowd drowned him out.

“Don’t worry!” she yelled. “We’ve done this before, I know exactly how this goes!”

And she did. Like every time before, she stood quiet, demure, as man and god argued over her soul. She listened as her lover played a song, lovelier than ever for his desperation. She watched the crowd swing like a pendulum, first backing the Boss, then the underdog, back and forth until Hades finally delivered his offer of release.

“With one special condition--”

The crowd rioted, but she stood calm. She knew what was coming next.

“She walks in front.”

She froze. That’s not how the story goes. _He’s_ supposed to go ahead, lead the way like he always does. He keeps her in line, keeps her tethered. If she goes first she might never stop walking.

“Oh yes, little Lark,” Hades cooed. “You get to save yourself this time around. If you make it out you’re free no matter what happens to loverboy. But if he doesn’t make it out, his soul is mine, forever. No more chances.” He grinned, and there was fire between his teeth. “It’s your freedom or his life.”

“But I don’t know the way!” she protested. “I didn’t come in the way he did.”

Hades didn’t even deign that with a glare. “You’ve walked that path just as much as the poet has. If you don’t know the way that’s your own folly.”

 

And Hades snapped his fingers again and she was alone on a railroad track.

She’d never taken the time, before, to see how barren this path was. It was still underground but she felt like she was in a desert, a dark horizon stretching to infinity in front of her. The world was so solitary without a figure in front of her to break that line.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I know the way. You just follow the tracks to the end of the horizon.” Not even she was sure whether she was talking to herself or the shadow behind her. “I’ve done it from the back, I can do it from the front.”

With no other choice, she put one foot in front of the other.

The other times, she could hear the footfalls of the man in front of her, the way his clothes rubbed against him. The air moving in and out of his lungs. Sometimes he’d sing, whistle, strum his guitar, music a light leading the way. This time round, she can only hear herself and deafening silence.

Suddenly her feet itched to just _go_ , just run and run and don’t look back and don’t breathe and don’t stop until she tasted real air. The only thing that kept her trapped down there was the distance between her and the surface.

She never felt more alone in her life.

She couldn’t run, she knew that. She might move faster than he can, or maybe he’d trip and she wouldn’t know. She might lose him.

What if he already fell?

Her heart hurt as it tried to beat it’s way out of her chest. _I’m so alone_ , she thought. _I could scream and cry and tear myself apart and no one would ever know_.

Is there even a point to this? There’s no way that she can do this. Hades designed it so that this failure is her fault, so that he could finally put an end to their song. A life is such a heavy burden, especially when it’s not your own. She can’t make it out. _I’m so alone_. Even if she did, how can she make sure he did, too? _Alone_. She can’t turn around and check. What if Hades just took him then and there, before she even took her first step? What if she lost him? _I’m so alone!_ Why shouldn’t she just turn back around and go back to the mines? _Alone alone alone_ She’s never done anything for herself before, never made the first move. She always reacts, never acts. She’s supposed to follow, to harmonize, she can’t take the lead. If he couldn’t make it in the hundred times he’d tried, what made her think she could do any better? Why shouldn’t she turn around? At least then she might get one more look at her lover, the only good thing to ever happen to her. Why shouldn’t she look back?

“Can we really change the ending?” she begged of the air in front of her. Her breath sounded harsh in the silence. Shadows echoed her erratic heartbeat back to her. She closed her eyes, remembering the way he held her, the way his voice rumbled in his chest against her cheek. She breathed in the memory of his scent. She felt his love.

“Maybe not,” she murmured. “But maybe we can change how we understand the story. Maybe we can learn a different lesson.” She smiled, and no one was around to see how beautiful a sight it was. “Maybe it’s the one we were meant to learn all along.” _I’m not alone._

She stuck her hand out behind her.

“Orpheus.”

 

This story’s been told a hundred different times in every which way. No one’s version is right, really, because a story is a life and who’s to say what lives have and haven’t been lived? Truth is nothing but a story people decided works best.

It’s a sad song; it’s a tragedy. Most versions end in heartbreak-- he looks back, she looks back, they falter, doubt comes in. One, both are damned. It’s a story about trying to outsmart the gods, about hubris. It’s about the fault of man. It’s about faith. It’s about the dangers of love, the way trust doesn’t stand as strong as we think it does. It’s truth. It’s propaganda. It’s a love song. It’s a warning, a fable. A myth. It’s a sad tale, and we sing it anyway.

That is the version most people know because it keeps coal miners working and the living away from death’s door. Telling it in booming voices that don’t quite echo keeps people exactly where they’re supposed to be.

But there’s whispers of another. If you listen closely, you can hear what it is:

Some treacherous stories say they might have made it, hands clasped, together.

 

This is what it is, glittering with evil betraying beautiful hope:

Who’s to say they didn’t make it, just once?

And isn’t just once enough?

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to steph and em for leaving comments on the google doc for this in various tones of distress, it means so much to me <3
> 
> i'm aware that this is pretty much the antithesis of the original orpheus and eurydice myth in terms of message and tone but they've been through the same journey for thousands of years. don't they deserve to win, even once?
> 
> also, if anyone's interested: the song the miners and eurydice sing is "all i've ever known" from hadestown bc i like making myself sad


End file.
